


Crime and Punishment

by sigmaslut



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Age Difference, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slight Pain Kink, The Helmet Stays on During Sex, boba fett being condescending, boba fett is a scary crime lord and you're into it, boba's lap but make it a seat, do not come for me i do not know the lore i am just Horny, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigmaslut/pseuds/sigmaslut
Summary: “Well, what do we have here? I didn’t think our problem would be arunt.” Andoh, it’s not meant kindly at all, but it’s the way he says it -- voice dropping to an almost-growl, the hard emphasis on thet, the slight mockery in his tone -- it makes some corrupted part of you squirm in delight.------When your attempt to steal fromtheBoba Fett goes awry, your punishment is to see the man himself.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 154





	Crime and Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> so like we all saw boba fett on that throne right. like we all saw him sit there spread legged and collectively thought, damn, i want to sit in his lap  
> right

It was supposed to be simple.

An easy in-and-out job, grab the cargo and get the fuck out of dodge. You were quicker than most, deft and nimble in the ways it counted, which is why your contact hired you in the first place. Stealing from Boba Fett himself was easily the riskiest job you’d ever been offered, but the pay would be _handsome_ \-- enough that you wouldn’t have to take another one for months to come.

You wouldn’t call yourself a pro by any means, just a survivalist, but years living alone on the lawless land of Tatooine has made you one of the best at sneaking and stealing. No amount of skill would be enough to pull this off, however; you were nothing without your plans. And this one? Perfect. Every detail was accounted for down to the exact time you would enter and leave. You had contingencies upon contingencies just in case any one of your meticulous steps went wrong. In theory, it was the perfect heist.

In _theory_.

Instead, you find yourself bruised and beaten, stumbling after some underling who leads you to who-knows-where. Your wrists are cuffed in front of you, leaving you with no choice but to clasp them together as if in prayer.

All your careful and diligent planning….gone, just because you forgot one crucial thing: Boba Fett’s underworld crime ring wasn’t a well oiled machine like the Empire. It was filled with lugs and lowlifes from every sector in the galaxy, beings prone to disobeying rules and disrupting patterns. You couldn’t plan for the unexpected.

The underling leads you to the top of a flight of stairs. Descending them seems a daunting task -- your earlier, utterly futile attempt at escaping has left you exhausted with jelly for legs, and your fear has you running on fumes. Each step is slow, measured -- until the underling behind you prods your back with the butt of his gun. The simple action is enough to make you lose your footing and you stumble on the stairs, barely able to stabilize yourself.

“Move it,” they bark. Your heart is _racing_ from the near-tumble. You take a few moments to center yourself in an attempt to regain your composure, but the underling is having none of it.

“I said _move it._ ” Mercilessly, they push you down the last few steps, sending you tumbling for real. You land painfully on your knees, aggravating an earlier injury, and you yelp as sharp pain shoots through you. You only barely manage to keep from smashing your face into the ground by bracing yourself on your bound hands. 

Dizzy with pain, you can’t do anything more than stay pitifully on your hands and knees, waiting for the dark spots in your vision to subside. As soon as you convince yourself not to pass out, you raise up slowly --

\-- and your heart stops.

In front of you is Boba Fett. _That_ Boba Fett, the renowned bounty hunter, the man who fell into a sarlacc pit and _survived_.

He lounges comfortably in the stone throne, his legs spread wide, one arm carelessly draped over a thigh. He’s a picture-perfect example of a man unburdened with worries -- he’s powerful. Unconquerable. You pose no threat to him.

It’ll be a miracle if you make it out of here alive.

“Well, what do we have here?” The angle of his helmet implies disinterest, but you know he’s scrutinizing you behind that darkened visor. “I didn’t think our problem would be a _runt_ .” And _oh_ , it’s not meant kindly at all, but it’s the way he says it -- voice dropping to an almost-growl, the hard emphasis on the _t_ , the slight mockery in his tone -- it makes some corrupted part of you squirm in delight.

You know who this man is. You know the legends, the whispered rumors of what he’s done. Before meeting him, you would joke that you could take Boba in a fight, that you could outwit and outrun the great Boba Fett. It would be hard, sure, but there would be bragging rights involved in besting this man.

But now? Now, kneeling before him, suffocating in his presence -- you wouldn’t even dare to fantasize about it. The man radiates an unquestionable authority that makes you want to _submit,_ to give this man of insurmountable power all control over you.

Damn it all. This job was supposed to be _easy_.

“Come.”

You blink dumbly at him, your brain unable to understand why you haven’t been killed yet. Boba tilts his head downward and you get the impression he’s challenging you to disobey. “ _Come,”_ he repeats. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Unwilling to find out what disobedience entails, you raise yourself on unsteady legs, but pain surges up through your knees and threatens to crumple you yet again. The underling from earlier misinterprets your inability to move as reluctance instead and gives you another hard shove on your back. You trip forward and fall yet again to your knees, unable to suppress a cry of pain as your reflexes fail you and you smash face-first into the floor.

In front of your nose is one scuffed black boot. Your eyes travel up, up, up -- until you’re gazing at Boba’s dispassionate helmet. He’s literally staring down at you, and a disgusting part of yourself tries to convince you that this is _right_ . That this is _proper_ , that you _belong_ here, crumpled on the ground before him, as if he’s some sort of god to be worshipped --

The toe of his boot tucks itself underneath your chin as you stare, wide-eyed, and forces you to tilt your head upward. “Up,” he commands. “Or do I have to do it myself?”

It’s a threat, you know it, but images flash in your mind unbidden; of Boba tangling his hand in your hair and yanking you to your feet, of him leaning in close to growl orders in your ear… it’s almost enough to make you tempt fate. _Almost._

Fortunately, you still have a braincell left that overrides the arousal pooling in your gut.

You stand as quickly as you can, burdened with shackled wrists and an aching body. You don’t even have a moment to ponder what Boba wants from you, because almost instantly he roughly manhandles you onto his lap. You’re arranged in such a way that one of his broad thighs sits wedged between yours, your bound hands just _inches_ from touching the cool steel of his armor.

He’s _terrifying_ up close. The helmet dehumanizes him, makes him seem otherworldly, beyond your comprehension. You can’t even see past the black of his visor; you’re allowed no glimpses of his face, of what emotion he’s feeling. The hands that hold your hips have a strength in them you could never hope to fight, and any and all remaining thoughts of somehow overpowering Boba and making your escape immediately flee your mind.

You don’t breathe. You _can’t_ breathe. This is weird and unplanned; you don’t have a contingency situation for _this_. What does he want? Was he planning on shooting you up close? Choking you to death? Did he just want to see how confused he could make you? What cruel and unusual punishment did he have lined up?

Boba abruptly grabs your chin and you gasp, your brain short-circuiting as it attempts to rationalize the situation. You can’t look away; he tilts his helmet ever-so-slightly as he turns your head this way and that, as if he were inspecting you. One gloved thumb pulls at your lower lip, exposing your bottom row of teeth, and for the first time you wonder if your rapid heartbeat isn’t _just_ from fear. Unconsciously, you squeeze your legs around his thigh, your gaze trained on his helmet.

“I thought you might be fun,” he murmurs appraisingly. He doesn’t have to force his thumb between your lips -- you open your mouth _willingly_ , lave your tongue over the soft leather of his glove. It’s like your brain is shut off except for your most basic of instincts, and somehow _this_ is one of them. Your lips close around his thumb, eyes falling half-lidded as you swallow around it.

“Yes,” he almost _purrs_. “We could have fun, little one.”

You’re a survivalist. If this is how Boba wants you to make amends for your petty crime, you’re all too happy to oblige 

You suppose you should be grateful that he isn’t killing you (at least, not yet), but any gratitude you feel is mitigated by the sudden shifting of his thigh. It’s thick and wide, slotted perfectly between yours, and his flesh has the right amount of give to it that it makes the slow grind _stupidly_ pleasurable. 

Boba pulls his thumb from your mouth and you _whine_ , unable to help the way your mouth lolls open, as if you’re tempting him to fill it again. “Easy now,” he chides. “Or have you forgotten we’re not alone?”

You still, your eyes widening. The underling from earlier hadn’t left, and there you were, acting so _debauched_ on Boba’s thigh? If you were any better of a person, you might’ve felt enough to be ashamed of yourself.

Boba’s helmet turns to look at something just past your shoulder. “Leave.” He pauses, head turning back toward you. “Unless,” he begins, “you _want_ to be watched?” You must make some sort of face that he interprets as a stern _no_ , because he makes a shooing motion with his hand. You hear the sound of footsteps retreating into the distance, and a part of you _relaxes_ knowing that you’re truly alone with Boba Fett.

....How messed up.

His hand returns, thumb barely grazing over your mouth, before he decides differently and instead pushes his first two fingers past your lips. You accept them eagerly just as he begins to shift his thigh against your heated middle. The action encourages a moan from deep in your throat as your tongue parts his fingers, coating the leather in a generous amount of your saliva.

“That’s it,” Boba grunts. It sounds almost affectionate, almost like _praise_ , but you know better than to interpret it as such.

Instead, you chase fulfillment in a different way, rocking your hips in small, desperate motions as Boba fills your mouth. You brace yourself on the metal of his chestplate as well as you can, palms open and pressed against the metal. You could sit here for hours, you think, grinding yourself to completion on his thigh while lazily mouthing at his fingers. This is _far_ from what you had envisioned as a punishment from the legendary Boba Fett. You think it’s more like a pleasure-ment.

That is, until you feel his broad hand settle on your thigh. He grips you _tight_ , the power in his hand meant to make you still, but somehow he’s managed to find the biggest bruise under your thin pants. You cry out as pain flares up from the sudden pressure; Boba takes the opportunity to shove his fingers _deep_ in your throat, making you gag.

Tears well up in your eyes, both at the pain and the sudden intrusion. If you weren’t so helplessly bound you might’ve been able to stop him, but as it is you’re completely at his mercy. Boba grasps your face in his hand, the leather of his fingers wet with your spit, and squeezes your cheeks so hard that it forces your mouth to pucker.

He chuckles, mean and sharp. “Aww, poor thing,” he cooes. “Am I hurting you?” You nod, the tears that cloud your vision already threatening to spill onto your cheeks. “ _Good_.” His fingertips press harder into the ugly bruise on your thigh and you hiss in pain, arching like you can get away from his grip.

But you can’t. Of course you can’t. You were stupid enough to come crawling into the wolf’s den and now you’re his next meal.

“Did you really think I’d let a runt like you steal from me?” The hand around your face slackens, moving down to hold your jaw tight. When you don’t respond, he digs his fingers deeper into your thigh. “I asked you a _question_.”

You gasp out a sob. “N-no!” you squeak, the first words you’d spoken since attempting this dumb heist. “No, sir.” The title comes automatically, like it was sitting in your mouth, just waiting for you to speak.

“Good.” He sounds _pleased_ at your meager attempt of communicating, and it makes your dumb foolish heart do weird things in your chest. He’s giving you crumbs that can be misconstrued as praise and you’re licking them up off the floor.

“Get on your knees,” he orders. You blink up at him, stray tears falling down to your cheeks. Really? After all that effort to get you up here in the first place?

“Wh….why --”

“Your real punishment,” he says simply. When you fail to move, he takes it upon himself to displace you from his lap, lifting you up and off him as easily as he would a sack of potatoes. You crumple disgracefully to your knees, head barely inches away from where you sat just a moment ago.

Your gaze settles on the prominent bulge in his soft trousers, evidence that he was enjoying himself, and then drifts to his thigh; to your utter embarrassment, there’s a sizable wet patch discoloring the fabric. Were you really worked up enough for it to leak through your clothes and onto his?

“You left a mess,” he notes. “Clean it up.”

His helmet stares down at you, intense and unforgiving, and you feel heat rise to your face. Just… lick it up? His pants? You squirm.

“Well? Don’t keep me waiting.”

You glance from his helmet down to his thigh, then carefully lean in. You have to balance your bound hands against the edge of the throne between his legs to keep from tipping over. Tentatively, you stick your tongue out and just barely swipe the tip across the wet spot; you look up at Boba and find him with his helmet cocked against his fist, feigning disinterest. “Go on,” he prompts.

 _It’s like his fingers_ , you tell yourself, even though it isn’t remotely true, and you lick a broad stripe across his thigh. You can vaguely taste yourself, but it also just tastes like _pant_. It isn’t...bad, just weird. 

It’s easier if you pretend it’s his bare thigh. You repeat your action, tongue against fabric, again and again until the spot is slick with your saliva and you no longer taste any remnant of yourself. You take it a step further and actually _suck_ , lips against his thigh, and Boba yanks you back, hand fisted in your hair.

“ _Enough_ .” He holds you in place so tight that your scalp burns, sending fresh tears pricking at your eyes. “You want to use your filthy little mouth so bad? Fine.” Through blurred vision you watch as he tugs himself free from his trousers. The moment he frees his cock, you _whine_ like some bitch in heat, instinctively pressing your thighs tighter together. 

You can’t help it. You’ve never wanted to suck a cock so bad.

“Please,” you gasp, prevented from lurching forward by the hand in your hair. He’s just as wound up as you are, his cock hard and leaking precum. You’re desperate to taste him. “ _Please_ , Mr. Fett, sir, please, let me suck you off --”

“A runt _and_ a whore.” You interpret his tone as almost impressed. “I don’t think so.”

You want to retort something, _anything_ to convince him to let you drool on his cock, but suddenly he drags you forward by the roots of your hair and forces himself down your throat.

You gag as tears anew begin rolling down your cheeks. He isn’t fucking you so much as using you like a toy, bobbing your head back and forth by a strong grip on your hair, and it’s all you can do to sit there and take it. You realize now what he meant: he wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of getting him off. He was going to use you to meet his own end.

And, somehow, you still like it.

You whimper around his cock, gasping breaths when you can. Boba, to your chagrin, remains mostly quiet, so the room is filled with the lewd sounds of your gagging and sputtering.

Your whole body aches. Your scalp hurts. Your throat hurts. Your lungs are burning from lack of oxygen, you’re still on edge, and _yet._

And yet, easily, this is the most turned on you’ve ever been in your life.

You have no time to contemplate what that means for you morally as Boba guides your head to the base of his cock, easing you down all the way until your nose is buried in curls of hair. Reflexively, you swallow around him, and Boba curses in a language you aren’t familiar with.

“I’m gonna come down that pretty throat of yours,” he rasps, holding you in place by a strong hand at the back of your head. “You want that, hm?”

You want to nod, you want to praise him in words, but all you can do is whine _desperately_ and hope he takes the hint.

He cants his hips shallowly against your mouth once, twice; and you _swear_ you feel his cock pulse in your mouth before he spills down your throat. “ _Swallow it_ ,” he growls, all rough edges and intimidation, but it’s too much.

Thankfully, he releases you before you begin to choke. You swallowed what you could, but some trickled down the corners of your mouth. Boba reaches down and thumbs away some of his cum, presenting you a leathered thumb to lick clean.

It’s like you’ve been fucked dumb. You stare up at him with lidded eyes blown wide with lust as you lap at his thumb. Again, he swipes away his mess, letting you repeatedly clean his thumb until every last bit is gone.

Boba tucks himself back into his trousers like nothing had happened, but the large wet spot still remains on his thigh. Distracted, you stare intently at it. You wish he’d let you back up there. You want a chance to finish what he started.

His boot presses into your chest, applying just enough force to unbalance you and send you careening onto your back. The sudden action forces your hazy mind to clear, your heart pumping once again with adrenaline.

He regards you coolly. “You get a day’s head start.”

You have to crane your neck to look at him, feeling like a turtle on its shell.“Wh-what?”

“Like I said, we could have fun. I suggest you find a ship. If you stay planetside, I’ll find you in no time.”

Realization hits you: he intends to hunt you. You’re his _prey_.

You scramble to your feet, a job made more onerous by the shackles around your wrists, and you wince as pain settles in your legs again. 

He was generous, giving you a day. He wouldn’t need it to find you, but you’re certain he wishes to prolong the hunt. And, well… Who are you to deny the great Boba Fett anything?

As you make your escape, you hear his voice drift up to you.

“Go on, little one. I’ll see you again soon enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> for my last sin of 2020 i have posted this. sorry mom


End file.
